


Branded

by Orcusnox (Cat9894)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2721968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat9894/pseuds/Orcusnox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During World War III, more than half of the world's population perished due to an unidentifiable biological weapon. Very few survived contact with the weapon, but those that did were altered. They became known as the Branded.</p><p>John Watson and Sherlock Holmes struggle to overcome the prejudice each side has for the other. Because like it or not, neither humans nor Branded will survive without the other.</p><p>On hiatus while I finish The Boys Wear Red...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

    Sherlock Holmes strode through the glass doors, ignoring the harried looking secretary and heading straight for the closest lift. The secretary called after him, her voice shaking, but Sherlock was already in the lift. The doors closed gently, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the distasteful music. He eyed the speakers with disgust.

    Sherlock huffed in annoyance when he glanced at his phone and saw that his signal had dropped out. As the elevator descended, he loosened his blue scarf and tapped a foot. The call from his brother had not been expected, although Sherlock was sure that whatever Mycroft had found wouldn’t be worth his time. The only reason he had shown up was because he brother had almost sounded _excited_.

    Sherlock hadn’t heard Mycroft sound excited since… Well, ever.

    After a ten minute descent, the lift stopped and the doors opened. Sherlock stormed out, his dark coat billowing behind him as he walked confidently past the men and woman that hurried around. Some were easily identifiable as scientists – their white coats a sharp contrast to the overall bleakness of the underground facility. They all moved aside for him – some would have recognised him, but most were simply intimidated by his height and the confidence he exuded.

    Where the lift had been brightly lit and falsely cheerful, the facility was lit only where necessary. Many of the corridors and halls were deeply shrouded in shadow, and Sherlock knew this to be by design. Much of the facility was old, and the shadowed halls generally connected to the older parts. The facility had been operational for many years, started by their grandfather during the third World War and looked after by their father before them.

    World War III had been as horrible as could be expected. Unlike the previous wars, over 150 years had passed and the world was still recovering. Someone – no one was willing to take the blame – had released a biological weapon that had resulted in the deaths of over 4 billion people. Those who had survived being exposed to the weapon were… Altered. And that was the purpose of the facility Sherlock now found himself in.

    To study the Branded.

    He didn’t bother to knock when he arrived at his destination. He entered, the door hitting the wall with a bang that would have made a lesser man jump. His brother, however, merely raised a thin eyebrow at him disparagingly. Sherlock slumped into one of the spare chairs, his tall frame reminiscent of a reluctant child. He watched Mycroft silently, his fingers pressed beneath his chin.

    As was usual, Sherlock couldn’t keep silent for long. “Well?” he demanded, sitting forward. His hands dropped to tap out a complicated beat on the desk. The single word managed to encompass a great deal more than it should have been capable of.

    Mycroft placed his pen on the desk. “So good of you to come, brother,” he said, his voice oddly formal. “I assure you, I am not ‘wasting your time’.”

    Sherlock snorted. “I think I’ll be the judge of that, Mycroft.” His sharp eyes drifted over his brother’s figure. “Diet’s going well, I see.”

    Mycroft’s lips pursed at the jab, but he managed to keep his face otherwise impassive. “I called because we’ve managed to catch something… Interesting.”

    Sherlock cocked his head sharply. “How interesting?”

    “I shall not pretend that this discovery isn’t important. As such, you have to realise that you are not allowed to breathe a word of it outside of this facility.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes at his brother. “I will not tolerate any leaks. They cannot know we have such a valuable asset.”

    “Have you managed to capture one of the Branded?” Sherlock asked, interest making his voice sharp. Mycroft inclined his head, rising to his feet and leading the way to the containment cells. Mycroft acknowledged several individuals as the brothers walked, but Sherlock offered no such courtesy.

    In the history of the facility, there had only ever been nine captured Branded individuals recorded. Sherlock used to think that the records had just been ill-kept, but the reality was that the Branded were extremely reclusive and difficult to capture. Their intelligence appeared to be a mix of human and animal, the resulting mixture making for a cunning and naturally flight-inclined nature.

    The brothers stopped in front of a relatively typical containment cell. The walls were all made of glass, enabling unrestricted visual access to whatever manner of creature placed within its confines. In addition, cameras recorded at all times from various angles and positions outside the cell. The floor was made of a soft, flexible material, and the only furniture in the cells were a single bed secured to the floor and a toilet. There was no screen for privacy.

    Sherlock was rather disappointed to see a small, compact man sitting in the centre of the cell. At first glance, there appeared to be nothing abnormal about him, but then he shifted _just so_. The light bounced off the Brand that curled up his left arm, etched into his skin from his wrist upwards. The lighting was all wrong for Sherlock to be able to discern how far the Bran actually went. He couldn’t even tell what colour the Brand was. Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

    “We believe he’s a scout,” Mycroft said, staring coldly at the blond man in the cell. “We don’t know what Faction he belongs to.”

    “Is he not speaking?” Sherlock murmured. He’d expected something magnificent, but this man was… Boring. Dull. Although Sherlock wouldn’t have said he was a scout. There was something off with that assessment, but he needed more data before he was sure. “How tedious.”

    “According to my people, he doesn’t understand us.” Mycroft sounded bitter.

    Sherlock scoffed and strode over to a microphone. He ignored the babble of indignant scientists and flicked it on. “Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes. You’re being held captive by the loyal men and women of Her Majesty’s army. You face torture and death if they don’t get what they want.” He switched the microphone off and stared at the Branded man.

    “Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, but his rebuke was stopped short when the Branded man very slowly, and very deliberately, smirked.

    “I think it’s safe to say he understands, brother,” Sherlock snapped, secretly intrigued. Most men feared death, and many feared even the idea of it. But the unremarkable man who sat demurely on the floor didn’t appear fazed. There was a calmness about him that seemed almost otherworldly, as though he already knew how this would end. And the end he had foreseen had not included him dying or being tortured.

    Fascinating.

    Mycroft’s assistant appeared, her heels clicking against the floor in the most annoying way possible, distracting Sherlock from his visual perusal of the Branded man. Her eyes glued to the phone in her hand, and hence she didn’t see the cold glare Sherlock aimed in her direction. “Your two o’clock is here,” she murmured to Mycroft.

    “If you want to work with this one,” Mycroft nodded at the Branded man, “I expect you to sign these.” He offered his brother a sheaf of papers that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. “Ladies, gentlemen, Sherlock.” He tilted his head to them as a whole and then left.

    Sherlock glanced briefly at the papers before demanding to be directed to the nearest shredder.


	2. Chapter 2

    Humans were strange creatures, John Watson mused as he sat in the middle of his glass cage. They milled about like ants, very carefully not looking at him. Their artificial light stole the lustre from his Brand, and John wished he were outside. So far, they’d done nothing interesting, at least not from where he was sitting. They’d said some silly things that he hadn’t responded to, and he was relatively entertained because now they thought he couldn’t understand them.

    He’d noted the arrival of two new humans with interest. They didn’t wear the white coats of the scientists, and they both moved with a confidence John recognised as belonging to someone in charge. The two of them ignored the researchers, engaging in conversation and glancing at him from the corner of their eyes every so often.

    Both of the new humans were tall, although the dark-haired one was taller than the one with the umbrella. Both humans had very intense stares, although the one with the umbrella – why did he have an umbrella? Had it started raining inside since the war? – had boring brown eyes while the taller one had rather interesting coloured eyes. In the horrible lighting, they looked to be flashing different colours – green and blue and grey. John had only ever seen one person with changing eye colour. But they were Branded, and the colour change frightened him more than he would ever admit.

    The taller one suddenly moved, striding over to where the most activity was occurring. The next moment, a deep voice echoed around John’s prison. It was flat, uninterested to the point of being robotic. At least, what John remembered being considered robotic.

    “Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes. You’re being held captive by the loyal men and women of Her Majesty’s army. You face torture and death if they don’t get what they want.”

    And then the tall one – Sherlock – stared at him, waiting. The one with the umbrella sighed and looked as though he were about to berate the taller man. So John turned his head slightly and gave them a smirk, because he was bored and the threat of death meant very little to him anymore.

    The Branded Factions fought each other for everything. Food, water, space, materials. Contrary to popular belief, none of them were stupid. They understood peace would be better, but the animal instincts they’d gained since the third world war were difficult to control. Especially if their bonded animal was a predator. The urges for territory, mates, and dominance were impossible to ignore. Even after all this time.

    He’d been a soldier, then. Ironically enough, a Captain in Her Majesty’s royal army. An easy-going sort of chap, until someone made him mad. And during the war, a lot of people had made him mad. As a Captain, he had seen many things he wished he’d never want to see again. And as a doctor, he’d seen things he wouldn’t wish upon his most hated enemies. Not that John Watson had had many enemies, comfy jumper loving man he’d been when he was at home.

    The ones he had had were long dead now. Either they had died from exposure, or they had died of old age. He tapped his Brand absently as he thought, the marked skin smooth beneath his fingertips. The Brand itself was more than a physical marker – it bound his life to that of his familiar. He felt a tiny smile creep across his face at the thought of Aithuna. The smile disappeared when his skin began to crawl.

    John glanced up – Sherlock was back, staring at him intently. He thought about offering the tall man a jaunty wave, but decided against it as the man leaned closer. John stared back at him calmly, ignoring the stirring beneath his skin as his animal instincts snarled to be free. Aithuna must have been further away than he thought – her presence calmed the instincts.

    Not that it mattered how far away she was. She would find him, because the Brand called to her. As he had inherited her instincts, she had taken on his intelligence. She wouldn’t attack alone – this was an event John knew would bring all the Factions together. It had happened before, in the past. When a Branded was caught, things tended to go badly for the humans.

    Sherlock was still there, but he’d moved back over to the microphone. He studied John for another moment before turning the microphone on.

    “Hello,” he offered, the word falling from his lips without any semblance of politeness. “I know you can understand me, and I can guess at your silence. Mycroft won’t dare do anything to harm you. He’s like a child with a new toy at the moment.” The disgust was almost tangible.

    John’s lips twitched. “Children grow bored of new toys quickly,” he pointed out. He wasn’t sure why he was talking to this one. He seemed interesting, yes, but he was _normal_. “And then toys are thrown away.”

    Sherlock’s eyes had lit up, and John was sure they were blue. “Do the Branded have toys?”

    Perhaps not as normal as he looked. Through the glass, John could smell his excitement, could smell the faint scent of chemicals and blood. He wrinkled his nose, shifting so that the air conditioning blew away the scent.

    Apparently Sherlock’s eyes missed nothing. “Do I smell?” he demanded, leaning even closer to the glass.

    There was no gain to come from lying. “Yes,” John replied simply.

    “What of?”

    “Nothing pleasant.” Now _that_ was almost a lie. There had been the hint of something, tantalising John’s nose, but the horrible scents easily overpowered it. “What do you want?”

    “Answers,” was the immediate reply. “I want answers.”

    John blinked. “You don’t get answers without asking questions.”

    Sherlock snorted. “Untrue. I know you have had military training. I know you belong to the canine Faction. I know you’ve spent your life in the forest.”

    “Impressive. How?”

    “I watched the security vision of you when you were brought in,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly. “You scanned the room before you made yourself comfortable, marking the exits and anything useful you could see. Your sense of smell gave you away for your Faction, and your old clothes had leaves belonging to the trees outside the boundaries. I’d go as far to say that you live in the west, judging by the way you were brought in and the faint scent of pine on your clothes. Why do you need military training?”

    John gaped at him. “That was brilliant,” he whispered. “Utterly brilliant. How did you notice all that?”

    Sherlock snorted again, but John thought he could detect the hint of a surprised smile on his features. “I simply use my eyes. People see but they don’t observe.”

    “Are you the only one who does that?” John asked wonderingly, because he’d never seen anything like it. It was different for him, because he had instincts and better senses, but Sherlock was completely human. He didn’t have a Brand, didn’t have a bond. The only thing about him that marked him as different were the eyes and his height, emphasised by how skinny he was. The doctor in John was muttering about malnourishment and proper weight, but the rest of him was in awe.

    “Mycroft can do it too,” Sherlock admitted reluctantly. He abruptly reminded of a child being told they had to share for their favourite toy. He fought to keep the laughter at bay, but of course Sherlock saw. “What is it?” he demanded. “What’s funny?”

    “I – it’s nothing,” John replied quickly, getting the distinct impression Sherlock would not appreciate the comparison. “I just think it’s brilliant.”

    “Do you realise you’re saying that aloud?” Sherlock asked, curiosity burning beneath his casual tone.

    “I do. I’ve never met anyone like you,” John admitted. “It’s… a refreshing change.” He felt his instincts fade into background noise even as his senses grew sharper. He blinked at Sherlock almost sleepily as his human inhibitions faded. “Your eyes are strange,” he murmured, climbing to his feet absently. Aithuna was nearby. He drifted over to the glass, pressing his hand against it. “I like them.” _Where had_ that _come from?_ he wondered with the merest hint of embarrassment.

    “Thank you?” Sherlock said after a pause.

    John smiled. “You’re welcome, Sherlock.”

    “How were you caught?” he asked urgently, seeming to sense John would be more inclined to answer his questions now. “You must have made a mistake. We don’t _just_ capture Branded – something goes wrong, we get lucky. What happened to you?”

    “I was… curious,” John replied, his voice soft. “I wanted to see how much this place had changed since I’d been here last. I shouldn’t have gone on my own.”

    “You’ve been here before?”

    John nodded. “Yes.”

    “When?”

    “Oh, a lifetime ago.” How true that was. “It’s been nice meeting you, Sherlock Holmes. And you, Mycroft.” He could smell the other man standing out of his line of sight, could sense how alert he was. “But I’m afraid I must be going.”

    “You can’t –” Sherlock began, but the entire facility abruptly turned to chaos. John watched as a small group of Branded burst into the lab – Greg, Sally, Anderson and Molly he recognised, as well as a beautiful woman he hadn’t met and a tall, muscular man he knew by reputation alone.

    Greg’s eagle, Mirian, swooped overhead, her talons shredding paper and snapping closed just above the fleeing humans’ heads. Sally’s Percy moved himself through the crowds, his scaly green tail whacking legs and smashing into tables. Anderson’s army of rats raised screams, and Molly’s beautiful elephant – affectionately called Ellie – smashed through the glass of John’s prison.

    He found himself by Sherlock’s side, Aithuna at his heels. She didn't usually like other people, but she gave Sherlock a friendly growl. Their pack ranged around them, snarling at the unknown woman’s snake as he slithered forward. It took a moment for Sherlock to notice him, but John thought he could forgive him.

    He held out his hand, a half-smile on his face. “John Watson,” he said, shaking Sherlock’s hand. “If you dig deep enough, you’ll find me. Until then.” He grinned and loped away, Aithuna howling as she followed him. His rescue party led the way out, Ellie carrying Molly on her back and Percy in her trunk. Moran’s tiger held the rear, roaring at anyone who moved. Aithuna and her pack backed the tiger up until everyone was out, and then everyone bolted for the forest. John let out a whoop as soon as his feet touched the forest floor, his cry of joy echoed by the other Branded.

    They disappeared into the forest, leaving the facility and Sherlock behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's taken me so long to update - my internet has been down for almost a week and I was so annoyed.
> 
> But anyway, I hope you enjoyed that!


	3. Chapter 3

    Sherlock was elbow deep in paperwork when the call from his brother came through.

    While it would have been easier and faster to look through the files on a computer, Sherlock was not naïve enough to think his search for one ‘John Watson’ would go unnoticed or unquestioned. Hence, paperwork.

    After a short conversation with his brother – during which he was reminded that he only had a limited amount of freedom before Mycroft required his presence upstairs – Sherlock returned his attention to the paperwork around him. The records took him back more than twenty years, but there was no mention of John Watson. The man had barely looked in his thirties, yet there was nothing. It was enough to make the genius frustrated.

    Extremely frustrated.

    He stood and paced around the small room, glaring up at the smug faces of the founders. Bastards, the lot of them, keeping such abysmal records. Then again, Sherlock couldn’t _really_ blame them. The records he was looking at had been created and filed away long after the founders had turned to nothing but bones. The only one he could blame was Mycroft, but Mycroft was intelligent enough to question what he was doing in the archives, digging around in old paperwork.

    Sherlock blew out a frustrated sigh and ran fingers through his hair. He needed a cigarette. He needed _something_ to help him focus. But no, Mycroft had snatched the cigarettes from him the first time he’d walked into the office, demanding freedom within the facility.

    “‘If you dig deep enough, you’ll find me’,” he muttered to himself. “Why do you want to be found, John?”

    The Branded man had been… odd, to say the least. People generally kept their distance from him once he started speaking. The moderately intelligent ones kept away from him entirely. He’d never seen the need to censor himself like Mycroft and so, despite his brother’s pompous attitude, people preferred to deal with him than with Sherlock.

    Not that Sherlock had ever minded.

    “How far back do I have to go?” he asked aloud. He hummed softly, thinking. A stray thought crossed his mind, but he couldn’t remember where he’d seen or heard it.

    _When in doubt, start at the beginning._

    The beginning. The war, the Branding, the facility. Sherlock paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. At the very least, he rationalised, perhaps he’d be able to find one of John’s ancestors.

 

 

    “Well,” Sherlock said to himself some time later, staring at the papers in front of him. “This is unexpected.”

    Unexpected was an understatement. Perhaps the biggest he’d ever made. This was… astonishing. Mind blowing. _Impossible_ , his logical mind insisted.

    “When you have eliminated the impossible,” he muttered to himself, touching the photo with gentle fingers, “whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

    Staring up at him was a picture of one Captain John H. Watson, blond hair cut military short and blue eyes bright. He was almost smiling, a proud expression that spoke volumes of his values. Sherlock sat down heavily, rubbing his temples.

    Not only was there a file for John Watson from the war – although that was more than enough for Sherlock at the moment – but the nine captured Branded recorded? Six of those were described as ‘short, blond-haired and blue-eyed’.

    “This explains the military training,” Sherlock muttered.

    Sherlock didn’t really understand what he was supposed to do now. He’d found him in the files, yes, but that didn’t give him any ideas on how to _find_ John Watson again. Sherlock went still. He _wanted_ to see the Branded man again. How odd.

    He blinked and refocused on the papers in front of him. After more than 150 years, and the man didn’t look a day older. His face had more lines – laugh and smile lines more prominent than frown lines – but that was the only difference. There had been no evidence of pained joints or fading eyesight, nor of any decreased mental functions.

    Sherlock pulled out his phone and took pictures of everything, since Mycroft wouldn’t allow him to take anything out of the facility. Just as he finished, his phone buzzed with a message from Anthea, Mycroft’s assistant. He pocketed his phone and cleaned up the files, leaving them as he had found them before heading back upstairs.

    His brother was in his office. “Sit down, brother dear,” he said as Sherlock walked in.

    “A rather unfortunate turn of events,” Sherlock replied, smiling smugly as Mycroft’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. “I would have thought you’d be prepared for any circumstance.”

    “Any _foreseen_ circumstance,” Mycroft said tightly. “The Factions putting aside their differences to help a Branded escape? That was definitely not foreseen.”

    “Then you will know for next time.”

    “Sherlock, there may never _be_ a next time. That Branded was a gift, one we wasted. I should have brought you in sooner than I did.”

    Sherlock was surprised at his brother’s admission. “Why didn’t you?”

    Mycroft sighed. “Because in all my foreseen circumstances, we had a few days. Best case scenario we would have had him for a month.” He straightened a pen on his desk. “I would like to know how they found him so fast. The tests conducted show he had no means of communicating, and we ensured that none of his scent would ever be found leading here.”

    Sherlock hummed. “The Branded all had their familiars with them. Perhaps they are more connected than anyone imagined.”

    “Perhaps. Did you find anything useful?”

    “He’s not a scout. He belongs to the canine Faction – his familiars were the wolves. He’s had military training, spent his life in the forest west of here.”

    Mycroft sat back. “Did you find what you were looking for in the archives?” he asked abruptly.

    Sherlock gave a disgusted snort. “No. Whoever is in charge of filing them should be fired. If that is all, I’ll take my leave.” He stood and turned in a smooth motion, pausing at the door when Mycroft stood.

    “Goodbye, brother dear. I will call you if I require your assistance again.”

    “Goodbye, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied, secure in the knowledge that he could fool his brother when he needed to. He left without another word, Mycroft still standing behind his desk.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short, but I haven't abandoned anything and I am still alive!

    “What were you _thinking_?” Sally demanded. Percy snapped his great jaws in agreement, the pale sunlight turning his scales almost yellow. “Going to the Facility? And by _yourself_?”

    “You could have at least asked me to come, mate,” Greg added, and John felt guilt niggle at him at his friend’s expression. “I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

    Moran snorted. “Little guy has balls,” he said, his smile sharp and probably nowhere near as friendly as he intended it to be. His tiger was sitting a little ways off, lounging in the sunshine. “Wouldn’t have thought you’d do something like that, Watson.”

    John smiled tightly. “It wasn’t anything new,” he replied shortly, feeling Aithuna’s growl through his leg.

    Sebastian Moran was someone John had never had any inclination to meet. Words spread fast through the factions, and word was that Moran was deadly. His moods changed faster than you could follow, and he was smarter than he appeared. A dangerous fellow, they said. Don't get on his bad side.

    The woman laughed, a low, almost intimate sound. “So I’ve heard,” she purred. She held out a hand. “Irene Adler. This is Diablo.” The snake, striped black, red and yellow, hissed in greeting. John felt his Brand tingle in warning.

    He took Irene’s hand, his eyes never straying from the snake. “What kind is he? I’ve never seen such a gorgeous snake.” He would have preferred to use a word like 'deadly' or 'gaudy', but he didn't want to get on Irene's bad side.

    “Diablo is an Eastern Coral Snake,” Irene replied primly, and John could tell she was gratified with his praise. “We came because Moran assured us it would be fun.”

    “And was it?” John asked pleasantly.

    “The most fun we’ve had in _ages_ ,” she said coyly, looking at him from beneath dark eyelashes.

    John smiled. “Glad to hear. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, but I’m sure you have places to be.” His smile turned a little sharper, and his pack growled as one. “Just like I do.”

    Irene’s expression turned delighted, and her snake hissed again, rearing upright where it coiled around Irene’s throat. John and his pack tensed, senses on high alert. While John was prepared to avoid this fight – there was no doubt the snake was poisonous – he wouldn’t back down if worst came to worst. That was weak, and John was not weak.

    Irene’s snake finally settled, resting his head on Irene’s pale shoulder. “I look forward to seeing you again, John Watson,” Irene said, and turned to the east and vanished into the forest.

    “I’m off as well,” Moran said cheerfully. “Invite us along again next time.” He turned north and practically melted into the trees. His tiger rose a few moments later and followed. The last thing they saw of them was the tiger's striped tail, flicking in the shadows.

    Molly let loose a shuddering breath. “I’m glad that is over,” she said quietly, stroking Ellie’s trunk. “Those two scare me.”

    “They should,” Greg replied, and Mirian screeched in agreement. “They’re dangerous, those two.”

    Anderson sniffed. “Aren’t we all?”

    There was a weighted silence in the little clearing until Sally broke it. “Rats, Anderson, are _not_ particularly dangerous.”

    The grin she received in response was filled with sharp teeth. “We’ll have to test your theory, Donovan.” On Anderson’s shoulder, the albino rat squeaked. The clearing was immediately filled with answering rat squeaks. The sound set John’s teeth on edge.

    “That’s enough,” Greg said, and the rats fell quiet. In another life, Gregory Lestrade had been an Inspector, and a damn good one. Sally and Anderson had been members of his team. Despite the new order of things, they still listened to him. Sally listened out of respect, but John suspected that Anderson listened more out of fear than respect.

    After all, eagles ate rats.

    Aithuna nudged his hand, and John smiled. “Thank you for coming,” he said sincerely, catching each of his friends’ eyes. “But it will not be the last time I venture back.”

    “I thought you’d say that,” Greg sighed. “When will you go next? In another few decades?”

    Aithuna barked out a laugh. It made John’s smile widen. “I’ll give it a week,” he replied, running his fingers through Aithuna’s coat. “That should give them time to fix everything, don’t you think?”

    Another silence, but this one felt ominous. “A week?” Molly squeaked finally.

    “A week?” Sally and Anderson chorused, faces blanched of colour.

    “A week?” Greg growled.

    “A week,” John confirmed. He grabbed Greg’s hand. “I found him.”

    Comprehension was slow to cross Greg’s face, and Mirian squawked impatiently. “Are you sure?”

    John’s pack snarled and growled at that, but John just kept smiling. “I am. He was… He was amazing.”

    “The same as always, then,” Molly said, her face alight with a soft joy. “He’s not a scientist, though. I can’t imagine him as one.”

    Sally snorted a laugh. “No, he wouldn’t be taking orders.”

    “No,” John agreed. He looked at Greg. “Mycroft runs the facility now.” John watched his friend’s face change instantly into a powerful longing.

    “You saw him?” The raw hope in Greg’s voice almost made John wince. “Are you sure? It’s been…”

    “It’s been too long,” John agreed. “But we were never without hope, were we?”

    Molly clapped her hands. “Oh, I’m so happy for the two of you!” she exclaimed.

    Anderson groaned. “You’re going to bring him here, aren’t you? He’s going to be as annoying as he was the last time we met, isn’t he?”

    “If you’re asking if his intelligence has suffered, the answer is no,” John replied, fighting a smile. “I don’t doubt he’s already figured out who I am.”

    “But he won’t remember who he was,” Sally said softly. “He won’t remember us. Any of us.” She looked at John searchingly. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

    Greg and John exchanged a look. “It does, a little,” John allowed. “But he’s here. He’s back, just as was promised. And really, isn’t that all that matters?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what did you think? Did you see that coming?


End file.
